A Happy New Year
by Kurissyma san Tybalt
Summary: "As he came to his senses, Morgan began to recognise the crumpled purple duvet and beaded curtains, and heard retching noises of a recognisable timbre from the direction of his colleague's bathroom. His best friend's bathroom. …His lover's? Apparently." A belatedly New Year-themed Garcia/Morgan morning after story - short, sweet, and a little tongue-in-cheek.


**AN./ So this has been floating unfinished on my harddrive since February of 2012, but it might still be good for a giggle! Totally tongue-in-cheek comic/romantic oneshot :P Hope you like it! –Bec xx**

* * *

Another "Happy New Year", another unfamiliar bed... Or rather, a familiar one, but not one Morgan had ever imagined waking up in. As he came to his senses, he began to recognise the crumpled purple duvet and beaded curtains, and heard retching noises of a recognisable timbre from the direction of his colleague's bathroom. His _best friend's_ bathroom. …His lover's? Apparently.

Morgan shivered as he pulled on yesterday's cool jeans, strewn halfway across the floor. Yes… He had vague memories of taking her against that wall, and on the bed, and on the… Shit.

He flustered for a few minutes, wondering whether or not to intervene in the evident regurgitation of last night's _pinot noir_, but soon enough his decision was made for him as the retching subsided and was replaced with quiet sobbing. That was _it_. Nobody made Penelope Garcia cry—not even him!

Still, Morgan found that he couldn't look at her as he entered the bathroom. Instead he walked over to the sink and busied himself with removing her toothbrush from the glass on the counter, running it under cold water and thumbing the bristles back before lining it with toothpaste and setting it down again. The glass, he filled with water and held out to her as he finally caught her eye.

Although his throbbing head disallowed any sort of real analysis of her face, Garcia seemed happy enough to drink the water down, and when the glass was handed back to him Morgan understood enough of her silence to appreciate that he was to refill and return it, rather than to put it away. A few glasses later, she moved for the toothbrush and gestured wordlessly to the cupboard, upon opening which, Morgan found a still-packaged, unused toothbrush for himself. He loaded it gratefully and they brushed their teeth in silence.

It was an odd picture, the two of them. He was wearing yesterday's crumpled jeans, she had thrown on a thin bathrobe in an act of belated modesty when he'd entered the room; her hair was a mess, his blessedly non-existent. Both had yet to speak a word, yet were in perfect understanding. '_We'll discuss the night when we've made it through the morning,'_ hung in the air between them. Both brushed their teeth multiple times. Both shivered.

When Garcia put away her toothbrush, Morgan followed suit, and when she left the bathroom he did the same. She crossed the room to her dresser and fumbled through its drawers. He leaned over her shoulder and whispered that she ought to dress warmly before withdrawing. She shivered now for an entirely different reason. Clothes-in-hand she made to return to the bathroom but, feeling the need to say something, explain something, turned back. Their eyes met. Morgan shrugged.

"I won't leave yet, if you don't mind," he said, trying his best to sound casual. "Don't rush out of the shower. I'll still be around."

Garcia tried to reply but no sound came out. She frowned and was forced to nod her understanding, cursing her headache and resultant lack of wit. Morgan, however, only smiled and gave her a small kiss on the cheek. Warm, minty breath washed across her face and tickled her nose. Only she could have made that old no-you-cannot-stay-the-night bachelor into what he was today. A small giggle escaped her as he turned away, causing him to grin, but he left the room as though he hadn't heard it.

* * *

Breakfast was quiet, thoughtful and entirely unsubstantial: one small bowl of cornflakes between them. It was more than enough; neither felt like eating. That aside, Morgan set to making coffee, ignoring Garcia's inquisitive gaze on his back.

"Good morning," she said eventually, her tone clearly amused. "Is it a _rule_ that we can't talk or…?"

Morgan chuckled. "Well that depends, baby girl."

"Depends on what?"

He smiled, barely. "On whether we're 'talking' or having 'a talk'."

The difference was distinctly clear to both of them.

"Whichever you'd prefer," Garcia replied, trying and failing to play it down.

Morgan took their coffees down to the table and handed Garcia hers, trying to smile reassuringly. "I don't know," he admitted. "Do you _want_ to talk?"

"To have _'a talk', _you mean? I think we need to, don't you?" she wondered noncommittally.

Morgan chuckled. "Ah yes, the obligatory post-coital _talk_… Well, I guess there's only one thing to ask." He smiled at Garcia's curious look. "Do we want to do this again sometime, or don't we?"

Garcia hit his arm playfully. "That is _not_ the only question," she protested.

"Okay, maybe not the _only_ question," Morgan agreed reluctantly. "But it's a pertinent one."

"And you're asking me?" Garcia gathered.

"I am," her erstwhile and potentially future sexual partner responded.

Garcia's lip curled curiously as she tried and failed to get a read on him. "If you're asking me, does that mean you're indifferent, yourself?" she asked. "Or that you'd really quite like to but you want _me_ to be the one to suggest it? You can't be wholly opposed or you would've been out the door before I got up… to vomit. Hey, sorry about that."

"No problem," Morgan replied, amusement still chiming clearly in his tone. "You didn't answer my question."

"You didn't answer mine," Garcia rebutted.

For a few moments more their eyes locked and both were silent. The dull pulse of an excitement not yet fully committed to thrummed through each of their veins. _Should I? Maybe not. Will I? Probably. I want to…_ Garcia found herself teetering between a blissful giggle (and the possible resumption of last night's snogging) and an equally pleasant "Cheers for the sex, mate; I'll see you at work."

"Do you even remember how we ended up in bed?" was the answer she finally settled on, disappointing both of them.

"I don't know," Morgan admitted. "But I think we started on the couch."

"Oooh, _yes_, the couch…" Garcia remembered, a glazed expression floating across her face.

A few more seconds of contemplative silence followed, then a rushed exchange—

"We're doing this again sober, right?"

"Yes. Definitely."


End file.
